The End of All
by Adeline
Summary: A short Ella Greene story...


The End of All

_The End of All__  
_by Adeline ([gossy16@yahoo.com][1])   
  


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Category: MG/EG/??  
Rating: PG-13.  
Spoilers: Season 7  
Feedback: This one's kinda weird, if I say so myself, so, feedback would mean the world... Please!!!   
Disclaimer: None of the named characters belong to me, the story is mine, blahblahblah... and all that crap.  
  
Notes: Well, there's nothing much to say. Except, uh... enjoy! Ooh, no, there is something: This is a first person narrative from Ella's point of view. I wrote this 'cause the idea kept distracting me from something else I was writing. And that's it. So, now, enjoy! :)  
  
  
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"The End of All," by Adeline ([gossy16@yahoo.com][1])  
  
  
  
He cannot die. Not him. Not now. I still need him, now more than ever in my lifetime. He cannot die. How would I feel? What would I do? Mom won't be able to take it. She won't let it ever happen. His colleagues - no, his friends - won't let it happen. He's one of them, one of the family. They would feel lost without him, and they'd be confused, for a long time after.  
  
He's my family. I would be lost without him, and so damn confused. Forever.  
  
He cannot die. But I know sooner than later he will.  
  
  
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I guess I'll see Rachel again, and Jennifer, and Craig.  
  
Rachel resents me, and only ever talks to me and calls on my birthday because Jennifer and Craig make her. I 'stole her dad away'. I don't mind that she thinks so, because I know it's not true. Or maybe it is. But I still don't mind.  
  
I hate them all, the three of them. I hate them because they got to know him more than I ever will, and I can't get over that. Craig knows my father more than I do, damnit! And he's not a childhood friend, college roommate, ex-colleague or whatever. He's merely Jennifer's new husband. And they live in St. Louis, for crying out loud! Yet he knows my father more than I do.  
  
  
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I've never called my father Dad. Sometimes when I think about it, I start shaking and I want to cry. Sometimes I do. And then at night I close my eyes and pretend I'm a so-called Daddy's girl. I dream that he takes me to the fair and we ride the carousel and the big wheel while munching on candy floss even though I'm fourteen and it's supposedly beyond my age. But I don't care because I'm happy. Then I see long walks along the river where he'd tell me about his friends in Seattle and Phoenix and San Fran or wherever. I'd listen carefully and after awhile he'd start talking about his parents. My grandparents.  
  
Rachel had that when she was little. All that. And I didn't. I don't think I ever will, either.  
  
Then I wake up in tears. Dreams is all it ever was.  
  
  
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He cannot die. Even though I love her, I don't want to be alone with my mother. I don't want her to be my girlfriend, and I don't want to be her confidante. My shoulders are still too frail to be cried upon. I'm just a child.  
  
I want her to be his wife, and them both to be my parents. I want her to be there to talk to me when I need it, but nothing more. I want to be like any other kid. But I'm not.  
  
  
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I've been to London a lot, it seems. I used to go with my mother every Christmas, and every Summer. If I happen to tell my friends about it, they get jealous, and they start gushing about how incredibly lucky I am. I like  
that. I'm jealous of the relationships they have with their dads all the time, and it's somewhat soothing to know the envy between us works both ways.  
  
But I don't give a flying fuck about London, I don't remember it well enough to care. I don't remember it at all. But all I know is that my father never came with us. Ever.  
  
And we don't go anymore. Since Grandad died, I only went once, to attend the funeral. I was 7 and he'd had a heart stroke. I cried because I hurt my knee against a pew in the church, but not for grief or sorrow. I was 7 and  
he was just a very nice old man I knew. Now I've lived twice as much, and the next memorial service I will attend I know I will cry at. I will cry a river and I'll be unconsolable.  
  
  
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Often when we go to the church, I'll light up a candle and pray that my father would manifest some kind of attention, show that he cares. But so far he hasn't. I've been doing this for as long as I can remember. Mom says he does care, and he loves me very much even if I can't see it... Bullshit.  
  
Next thing she'll be telling me, he's watching over us from a better place. Yeah, right. I say, he doesn't give a fuck. Is it too much to ask for a leaf to drop or a breeze to blow past when I pray for it to? I know it's like the silliest thing ever, and that I read too much and watch too many movies, but really, it's *nothing* to ask for. And he doesn't even give it.  
  
  
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I've learnt to call somebody else Dad. He's kind, and caring, and he loves me. I can't even remember what it was like before he came along, because I was only 4 and a half then. He's very protective of me and always  
demands to know the boy I'll go on a date with. He gives me all the advice I could ask for, and all of his attention. He likes to spoil me, and he takes good care of my mother as well. He's a doctor and he works with her at the hospital. And it's no wonder she chose him to raise me with, because I wouldn't want anybody else in the world.  
  
We go ride the big wheel and the carousel every time the fair is in town. And we take long walks along the river whenever the weather allows it.  
  
But he only ever talks about me and Mom and us three. Nothing about his parents, or his friends. Because he feels it won't interest me. Maybe it would if he gave it a try, or maybe it wouldn't. But I don't know because he  
doesn't give it a try.  
  
I can't hold that against him because I know he means well. He probably just doesn't want to remind me of the things I don't have. I don't have my father, I have him instead, and I don't have paternal grandparents but I don't want his mother and father to be them. So in some respects, maybe it's best that he doesn't mention his own family. But now there's like this invisible physical wall between us. The knowledge that he is not my kin, that the blood in my veins is not his, that my kids won't look one bit like him.  
  
Sometimes if I struggle hard enough with the truth that inhabits me, I can make abstraction of everything inconvenient that I know, and that I wish I didn't, to believe for a few moments that he is in fact my biological  
originator. Then I can slide into slumber, driven by blissful dreams made of the fakeness I wish was truth, where calling the hospital announcing myself as his daughter when I need to talk to him, or buying him a present for  
Father's Day seem like the summit of normality. Where my family tree has him in it. Where I bear his last name.  
  
Until my alarm rings, screaming at me. "No they don't! No it doesn't! No you don't!"  
  
It's always hampered our relationship since I found out (as soon as I was old enough to understand). A lot more back then, but there's still a feeling of unease lingering in the back of my head since that period.  
  
It makes us miss out on a lot, and I hate that. I hate that even though he was there through all the important times, even though he taught me to ride a bike, or knot my shoe-laces, even though he planned and attended all  
of my birthday parties and hasn't missed one parent/teacher meeting since I was in grade school, I still can't think of him as my father. Or me as his daughter. And it pains me that I never will. It doesn't matter what I  
believe, when I know my real father died when I wasn't even talking or walking.  
  
Then on the other hand, it's Dad I've grown around. I've grown up and I've grown a little bit wise with him. I've grown accustomed to the sound of his voice when he'd read me bedtime stories, and that of his laughter  
filling my ears when I'd say or do something funny. I've grown used to the scent of his cologne filling my nostrils every time he'd walk in the room. I've grown to love the sparkle in his eyes and the genuine smile across his  
face when he'd feel proud of me. It's always his hand I used to hold to cross the street, and his arms I still find warmth and comfort in when I cry or feel like crying for a thousand reasons or no reason at all.  
  
And what all this boils down to, is that I've grown to need him like the air I breathe. I wish I had realized this earlier. I wish I had realized this a couple years ago when there was no tumor and Mom wasn't living in denial, speaking to herself saying it's happening again when she thinks nobody hears.  
  
I feel guilt and remorse, and I need him to help me surpass them. He cannot die.  
  
He cannot die.  
  
  
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THE END.  
  
Before anyone asks, 'he' can be whomever you want him to be. Feel free to let me know who you picked, as I'm quite curious as to who people would imagine it is. :)  
  
Thank you for reading, please send feedback. :)  
  
~Adeline.

   [1]: mailto:gossy16@yahoo.com



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